i seriously equate

my ineptitude
in matters of love, lust, and that whole brigade
with a vast proportion of my depression.
in all my wisdom, i thought i'd invade;

i thought i would impose myself,
emboss myself, become a watermark,
an afterthough,
a distraction, for when
the stationery is far more interesting than the letter.

sometimes i wonder though if my whole foundation
for my implicit argument is even valid.
am i even that persuasive?
a lot of my justification for having remained immune
is that i'm significantly more attractive
to potential detractors--
no, destroyers--
i'm significant more indestructible,
more wholly callous than the rest.

my dear, i sometimes wish i could bottle up your existence,
drink of it. absorb it. give it one definite color
and tattoo it onto myself;
i sometimes wish i could whisper to the moon
and send tides your way, leaving you
helpless and made to seek shelter
on my shore--but you would just ride
them; i would whisper louder,
but you would go on riding anyway.

you would read the letter anyway,
no matter how imposing a watermark
i rendered myself;
you would read between the single-spaced lines,
but never see my repeating image there;
you would memorize the words,
and their positions on the page.